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SONNETS 
FROM THE 
PATAGONIAN 



SONNETS 
FROM THE 
PATAGONIAN 

THE STREET OF LITTLE HOTELS 



BY 

DONALD EVANS 

Author of " Discords " 



NEW YORK 
CLAIRE MARIE 
MCMXIV 



Copyright, 191 3 

BY 

Claire Marie 



PRINTED DECEMBER, 1913 






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I. 



fk 



DEC 29 1913 



CIA361518 



INDICES 



Love in Patagonia 

Love in Patagonia: p. ii 

Portraits of Allen Norton 

In the Vices: p. 15 
En Monocle: p. 17 
The Immortal Pose: p. 19 

Portrait of the Fan Fan 
Loving Kindness: p. 23 

Portrait of Mme. Hyssain 
Theatre du Nord: p. 27 

Portrait of Michael Peter 
The Year's End: p. 31 

Portrait of Donovan Blades 

Behind Claire Burke at Dinner: p. 35 



Portraits of Mabel Dodge 

Her Smile: p. 39 

The Last Dance at Dawn: p. 41 



Portrait of Carl Van Vechten 
In the Gentlemanly Interest: p. 45 

Portraits of the Author 

Epicede: p. 49 
In the Falklands: p. 51 
The Noon of Night: p. 53 
Fifth Avenue: p. 55 

Portraits of Louise Norton 

Buveuse d'Absinthe: p. 59 
Extreme Unction: p. 61 
The Jade Vase: p. 63 



LOVE IN PATAGONIA 



To 

Carl Van Veckten 



LOVE IN PATAGONIA 

FRGETTING her mauve vows the Fania fled, 
Taking away her moonlight scarves with her- 
There was no joy left in the calendar, 
And life was just an orchid that was dead. 
Even our pious peacocks went unfed — 
I had deserved no treachery like this. 
For I had bitten sharp kiss after kiss 
Devoutly, till her sleek young body bled. 

Then Carlo came ; he shone like a new sin — 

Straightway I knew pearl-powder still was sweet. 

And that my bleeding heart would not be scarred. 

I sought a shop where shoes were sold within. 
And for two hundred francs made brave my feet. 

And then I danced along the boulevard! 



II 



PORTRAITS OF ALLEN NORTON 



To 

Mabel Dodge 



IN THE VICES 

GAY and audacious crime glints in his eyes, 
And his mad talk, raping the commonplace, 
Gleefully runs a devil-praising race. 
And none can ever follow where he flies. 
He streaks himself with vices tenderly; 
He cradles sin, and with a figleaf fan 
Taps his green cat, watching the round suns span 
The wasted minutes to eternity. 

Once I took up his trail along the dark, 

Wishful to track him to the witches' flame,. 

To see the bubbling of the sneer and snare. 

The way led through a fragrant starlit park. 
And soon upon a harlot's house I came — r 

Within I found him playing at solitaire! 



15 



EN MONOCLE 

BORN with a monocle he stares at life, 
And sends his soul on pensive promenades; 
He pays a high price for discarded gods, 
And then regilds them to renew their strife. 
His calm moustache points to the ironies. 

And a fawn-coloured laugh sucks in the night, 
Full of the riant mists that turn to white 
In brief lost battles with banalities. 

Masters are makeshifts and a path to tread 
For blue pumps that are ardent for the air; 

Features are fixtures when the face is fled, 
And we are left the husks of tarnished hair; 

But he is one who lusts uncomforted 
To kiss the naked phrase quite unaware. 



17 



THE IMMORTAL POSE 

DIM-EYED with gazing at dark veils is he, 
His drooping lackeys tangled in their lace; 
But he is groping for the final grace, 
Undaunted in a deep despondency — 
A night of flame at last unleashed will be, 
Beholding then the deathless dazzling face. 
His hands will in that awful moment's space 
From out the finite grasp infinity. 

To reach those heights what will he have to pay? 

Immortal poise bought with unceasing pain, 
The perfect pose that no man dare forget, 
A teasing mask that none can tear away — 

What matters it if he himself be slain? 
— A star will rise, grow big, and never set. 



19 



PORTRAIT OF THE FAN FAN 

Imitated from " Discords *' 



To 

Louise Norton 



LOVING KINDNESS 

Moscow 

HER flesh was lyrical and sweet to flog, 
For the whip blanched her blood, though every vein 
Flooded with hate shot a hot flow of pain, 
And her screams were muffled by a brackish fog. 
He loved her, yet his passion could but fret 
Unless he lashed her to an awkward rage — 
But when his hand wrote terror on her page 
He knew exultant joy of feigned regret. 

Theirs was a bond that poured the wine of fear, 
And he drained her stiffened limbs with cruel art. 

He taught her that all tenderness had fled 

Till she would beg the hurt to taste the tear. 
And when she bent to kiss her crumpled heart 

It lit a Chinese candle in his head. 



23 



PORTRAIT OF MME. HYSSAIN 



To 

Claire Burke 



THEATRE DU NORD 

Tashkend 

SHE was tired to tears, and yet there were no tears, 
Only the dead seas of indifference 
Meeting the languors of a nerveless sense, 
For she had played the roles for twenty years. 
The queen called for her satins, while the drab 
Demanded love, and the wild hunger tore; 
The woman raged to touch the flame once more. 
But the worn-out emotions could not stab. 

There were the thousand parts she had essayed, 
And the three thousand gowns that she had worn. 

Into the ragbag each frock found its flight. 

Crumpled and ravished of a film-proud shaded 
And every script is wandering forlorn. 

Gnawed by the mirage of an opening night. 



27 



PORTRAIT OF MICHAEL PETER 



To 

J. B. Crandall 



THE YEAR'S END 

THERE is what is and what there is is fair, 
But most is yet to come to what is here; 
Here is the most to come from out a year, 
For from the year there comes all there is there. 
Song for the minnow and a crystal pool, 
And all is said of all there was to say, 
Yet all must say the all, since every day 
A nuptial kiss the wise man gives a fool. 

An ear of corn from the blind red sunburnt earth 
Blandly lies in the sun divinely green, 

Disowning what the earth and sun have done. 

Kisses and corn and a pool to crown the birth, 
With once to come what never before has been, 

And here is there what there is here begun. 



31 



PORTRAIT OF DONOVAN BLADES 



To 

Fania Marinoff 



BEHIND CLAIRE BURKE AT DINNER 

Saint- Falery-sur-Somme 

HIS lips must ever be but cold and mute, 
Chilled are they with his being still a boy's; 
Not choosing he has made the lifelong choice — 
To play in silence on a silver lute. 
Robbed even of that blossom-blighted fruit, 
The sad remembrance of forgotten joys, 
In one sound only finds his heart a voice, 
In the low moaning of a lonely flute. 

O aching arms flung out to her in vain! 

O beaker brimmed with bliss he may not share! 
Yet see him kneeling tremblingly confess — 
O joy renounced for wretched pale-eyed pain — 

As of white angels hushed in holy prayer, 
The calm sweet grandeur of her girlishness! 



35 



PORTRAITS OF MABEL DODGE 



To 

Louis Sherwin 



HER SMILE 

Laggan 

HER hidden smile was full of little breasts. 
And with her too white hands she stroked her fears, 
The while the serpent peered at her pink ears, 
And night's grim hours stalked in, unbidden guests. 
A noise was in her eyes that sang of scorn. 

And round her voice there gleamed a nameless dread, 
As though her lips were hungry for the dead. 
Yet knew the food of dawn would be forlorn. 

The cold hours ebbed, and still she held her throne; 

Across the sky the lightning made mad play. 
And then the scarlet screams stood forth revealed. 
She turned her back, and grasped a monotone; 

It answered all; she lived again that day 
She triumphed in the tragic turnip field. 



39 



THE LAST DANCE AT DAWN 

Firenze 

AND she was sad since she could not be sad. 
And every star flared amorous in the sky. 
Her pampered knees fell under her keen eye 
And it came to her she would not go mad. 
The gaucheries were turning the last screw, 
But there was still the island in the sea, 
The harridan chorus of eternity, 
That let her smile because he saw she knew. 

She even dared be impudent again. 

And bit his ear; the deaths were far away. 

The Bibles orgied in the treasure vaults — 

She tried to rouge her heart, yet quite in vain. 

The crucifix danced in, beribboned, gay, < 
And lisped to her a wish for the next waltz. 



41 



PORTRAIT OF CARL VAN VECHTEN 



To 

Gertrude Stein 



IN THE GENTLEMANLY INTEREST 

Piccadilly 

HE polished snubs till they were regnant art, 
Curling their shameless toilets round the hour. 
Each lay upon his lips an exquisite flower 
Subtly malign and poisoned for its part. 
The path of victims was no wanton plan — 
He had bowed his head in sorrow at his birth, 
For he had said long ere he came to earth 
That it was no place for a gentleman. 

But always a heart-scald lurked behind the screen^ 
And somehow he missed the ultimate degrees. 

He saw a beggar at the daylight's fall 

And then he rose and robbed him for the scene; 
And when they called him cad he found release — 

He knew he had used the finest snub of all. 



45 



PORTRAITS OF THE AUTHOR 



To 

Allen Norton 



EPICEDE 

WISTFULLY shimmering, shamelessly wise and weak. 
He lives in pawn, pledging a battered name; 
He loves his failures as one might love fame, 
And listens for the ghost years as they speak. 
A fragrance bright and broken clasps his head, 
And wildwood airs sing a frayed interlude. 
While cloaked he comes in a new attitude 
To play gravedigger if the word be said. 

He swore he would be glad and only glad, 

And turned to Broadway for the peace of God. 

He found it at the bottom of the glass, 

For where the dregs lay it was less than sad, 
And mid the murmur when the dance was trod 

He heard the echo of a genius pass. 



49 



IN THE FALKLANDS 

FOR his soul when homeless then is at home, 
And in a paradise where shadows wane 
He draws droll figures on the windowpane 
To lure his vagrom fellow souls to Rome. 
There is a potent rancour in the moon, 

Hunting for those who love him still, and three 
Gleam back. But with detached anxiety 
He vows that he will alienate them soon. 

He said that love had but two words, the last 
And first, and joy in flying laces lay. 

He watched each kiss to kill it at stark ease — 

His strangler's hands carve prayers for the past — 
And chastely he spends an hour every day 

Erecting tombstones to carnalities. 



51 



THE NOON OF NIGHT 

THE fictive tear he holds in reverence, 
And studies heady griefs that wash the cheek; 
It is a dim dominion he must seek. 
To gain some raiment for his impotence. 
Sorrows are numbered, the sighs have their strings, 
And barren smiles are trained for tragedy; 
He ties up parcels of mock gaiety, 
And labels them with many worshippings. 

Grapes in the grass, and every day a waste 
At scattered sources of lost loveliness, 

With drunkenness to drain the ruined seats. 

Thus came the gems to perjure glassy paste-^ 
But he thanks God aloof from all distress,, 

For he knows sewers run beneath the city streets. 



53 



FIFTH AVENUE 

AND when discovery marred the best disguise 
He winced a sigh, bowed to a spoiled deceit, 
And donned the damask draperies of defeat 
To woo dishonour as an enterprise. 
His self-betrayal had its tenderness 

And reared an outland refuge for his pride, 
For all were baffled telling how he lied, 
Since more than they could guess he would confess. 

He died a hero in Fifth Avenue 

One yellowed day saving a tattered man. 

But in the litter of his passing breath 

A prayer lay lest one should misconstrue. 
It was an accident — and he began 

A last profound apology to death. 



55 



PORTRAITS OF LOUISE NORTON 



To 

Donald Evans 



BUVEUSE D'ABSINTHE 

Rue (T Aphrodite 

HER voice was fleet-limbed and immaculate, 
And like peach blossoms blown across the wind 
Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind, 
Hung with soft dawns that danced a shadow fete. 
A silken silence crept up from the South, 

The flutes were hushed that mimed the orange moon, 
And down the willow stream my sighs were strewn, 
While I knelt to the corners of her mouth. 

Lead me afar from clamorous dissonance, 

For I am sick of empty trumpetings. 
And all the streets are sad with dusty noise., 
Here I have found her sweet sheer utterance, 

And now I seek the garden of the wings 
Where I may bathe in sounds that life destroys. 



59 



EXTREME UNCTION 

ACROSS the rotting pads in the lily lake 
Her gesture floated toward the iris bed, 
Wrapped in a whispered perfume of the dead, 
And her gaze followed slowly in its wake. 
Now was the summons come she must obey, 
For Beauty pleaded from the charnel house. 
For violet nights and violent carouse 
To free her from the cerements of decay. 

Crapulous hands reach out to strangle thee, 
And every moment is a winding-sheet, 

With bats to chant corruption's litany. 

Be thou a torch to flash fanfaronade, 

And as the earth crumbles beneath thy feet 

Flaunt thou the glitter of a new brocade! 



6i 



THE JADE VASE 

Pittsburgh 

HE had hunted for it to the alley's end, 
Yet when he found the jade vase he was sad, 
Eaten with ennui for the praise he had 
Given where offerings merely did not offend. 
A wall of glass held back his worshipping 
And his eyes that drank this miracle of stone 
Knew the discovery was not his own — 
Still the vase was there^ and that was everything. 

He thought back over all the songs he had sung. 
And all the hours his heart like waving grain 

Had swayed to music. And the joys now dead 

Seemed haunting coins to meagre beauty flung. 
Poignantly he longed to call them back. In vain! 

But they were the last words that the poet said. 



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